The Worker
by aragonite
Summary: My attempts to spackle the plot-holes in HIS LAST BOW. You can decide if HLB was a forgery, or if it was factual. And if it was factual, why did Holmes act so strangely?


_Whew. Man, this was tough. I wanted to do SOMETHING with that story, HIS LAST BOW, but mostly, I wanted to intimate that Holmes' apparent goofs—enough to make most government aids and diplomats flinch--were due to the fact that he wanted out of this job he was in, and he wanted out right now. Why else would he blow his cover six ways from Sunday, and create so many faux pas? You have two choices: The quick choice, which is to say His Last Bow is a forgery. Or you have the harder choice of plumbing for the logic of an apparently illogical action. The first option creates the problem of a simple answer followed by a complicated explanation—who wrote it then, if it was a forgery? But I've taken the second option and I hope it is satisfactory._

_Holmes was a genius, an occasional snob, and an excellent infiltrator, but he tried to be a fair player, and his second exile to work with the Prussian would have soured him to some of the aspects of the Great Game. My attempts; my hopeful explanation. _

Some accident had befallen the honeybee, and it lay dying with a crumpled wing in the clover lawn. With the utmost delicacy of touch, Sherlock Holmes lifted the drone up, and with a thoughtful expression, pressed it to his shoulder, exactly where his violin rested. The little forager took the indignity as a challenge, as bees do, and promptly impressed its venom into its captor's skin.

"I suspect," the detective said with a strange, half-quirk of amusement to his lips, "that you would never think to see me injecting one more drug into my bloodstream, Watson."

"And I would suspect," I countered, "that you would be aware that I am well versed in the effects of bee-venom on aging joints."

Holmes waited until the poison was completely within his veins, his expression never changing from its silent, almost compassionate features. When the attack was finished and the bee quite dead, he picked it up again with the same delicacy, and dropped it with a final glance into the shimmering net of a spider's web. His fingers, although occasionally stymied by the stiffness that comes with the chill sea-fog, are as sensitive and refined as ever. With only a touch he had the spider fooled into thinking the bounty in its trap was alive, and he accomplished this without tearing a single line of silk. His smile was one of amused pride to fool a predator into believing in his little deceit.

"A spider is less watchful for my bees if it carries a well-stocked larder," he observed. "And the bee fulfils one last purpose in the defence of her hive."

I have long known my friend's complex thought-processes were adorned with his own peculiar philosophy—a mental web as intricate as any spider's and tainted with his special sort of sympathy. That he would eschew the comfort of his own aching body until a dying bee could happen under that sharp grey gaze was no surprise to me, nor was I astonished that he would finish its use as a spider's meal to prevent a future hunt on his precious colony.

It was a warm day amongst the Downs, and I well recalled my first visit of the season as a continuous salt breeze blew off the Channel, stirring the grasslands to life in stages. Holmes' dormant vegetable-plot had been carpeted with purple dead-nettle, though he insisted on the more poetic name of 'Red Archangel.' The dusty-rose flowers created an early feast for Holmes' hives, and he was content to celebrate the end of the cold winter in a lawn chair under the full exposure of the sun, watching the colonies gorge on nectar from the strange flowers that smelt of bitter maroon earth.

I think of him now, wondering what business compelled him to leave his beloved home, and I remember that at least late in his years, he was finally able to set aside his great energies and his greater mind, and merely content himself within the moment of being.

Some long moments had passed, and slowly, Holmes began working the muscles in his rejuvenated shoulder, his concentration replaced by a smile of satisfaction as mobility was restored. "As I recall, my good fellow, I once asked if you wished one of my injections."

"And I naturally refused," was my response. "But in the matter of bees, I am much less against the treatment." So saying, I rose up, pipe in hand, and finally walked to the clump of native flowers he had painstakingly cultivated for the sake of the small yellow butterflies that shared their living-quarters with the bees. Here were many spider webs, and in the early hours the sea-dew collected an artificial shine, like leaded crystal beads. "I plea the folk-remedy of my upbringing, Holmes. If one wants to ease the rheumatism quickly, there's nothing as swift as a sauna, with a flagellation of stinging nettles among the limbs."

He of course knew I was teasing him, for his eyes narrowed in a laugh in that strong summer sunlight. The spring flowers had bowed to purple lavender among the fescue, planted in thick rows along his little road of crushed seashell and coral. It had made visits inadvisable until the bloom had passed for the profusion of the hungry bees. It was now that time of year when the world might be seen as white: never were the yarrows and Queen Anne's Lace as plentiful as they were this year, and they grew in confusions against minor hedges of brilliantly white and yellow Ox-eye daisies and sweet chamomile. In the heat of the sun the chamomile released its oils, creating a tropical scent of pine-apples, and the birds found the atmosphere as agreeable as I.

"You are concerned, Watson," he said to me. I thought to myself that his voice had changed over time, growing deeper as if from lack of use. I knew he had his neighbors; some he was even on intimate terms with. But this was not London, where one could not pass a day without having to speak.

Holmes planted many succulent foods for his bees—his own enjoyment of his labours came after his hives'. There was one happy accident in a slender cabbage rose, emerging one day without warning and blooming ever since. I paused to examine the pattern of the waxy petals.

"I should never have wrung that promise out of you," I answered. "I am sorry, Holmes."

His long hand—once white, now brown, lifts in a maneuver that he did not have before he was forced to flee from Moran.

"I have heard from Mycroft," he said at last. "His alleged retirement was merely a freeing-up of his time and energies, as you suspected to me years ago. At the time there was little point in confirming or denying it." Some long-ago memory sent a twist to his lips. "We both have our duties, both base and higher." A solitary bee slid past his gaze, and he smiled at it. "A Monarch, or a drone? That is truly the question."

"I do not completely understand," I confessed. "If you are leaving, I trust it is for the best. I only regret that publishing The Second Stain might cause the wrong person to remember you. I can only hope enough time has passed for the Strand to fade in the public memory."

Holmes paused, and lifted his head for a moment to that nearly cloudless sky. I saw him smile at the distant cry of a peregrine falcon, high upon the winds. "Those were the end of my salad days, Watson," he said. "When I was green in judgment. How did you ever tolerate all my foibles?"

"How did you ever tolerate mine?" I tried to laugh, pretending it was a light matter, but our conversation had irrevocably gone down a dark road. Holmes was not of a maudlin turn of mind, even in his days when the drug had him firm.

"You choose not to understand…very well, that is a fair enough response considering our history." He spoke without the least rancor.

"Holmes!" I cried. It was a protest without an argument. I did not wish to pursue this line of thought, for sad experience taught me that while Holmes had stepped away from the Black Moods that tormented him in London, they were no more vanquished than the drug he had once been slave to. "I fail to see what this conversation has to do with my publishing the Adventure of the Second Stain."

It was a desperate act of circumlocution, and as the moments ticked away, I thought I had failed. Holmes remained standing, his attention oriented upon his bees but he was also completely aware of how I stood by his volunteer rosebush, waiting for an answer as he waited for that answer to come.

"Good old Watson," he said at last, with great fondness in his voice, and the way he turned to regard me as if I was a particularly beloved part of his garden.

-

Once the Diogenes Club had been polished and suave, populated by the most antisocial men in London. The club now had the air of advancing age and comfortable neglect when I handed my coat to the silent page. The lamps were low; so low that I wondered if dust had collected while the staff and patrons passed by unawares.

London was changing; it would always change. I wondered to myself what new face the next generation of misanthropes would don—for it went against reason to think they would blindly copy their forefathers' example.

Mycroft Holmes had changed little since our last acquaintance. He had not gained in weight, but the power he carried that added to his sense of corpulence had very much grown. If the late Moriarty was a spider sitting in his web, attuned to the least stirrings of his prey (to be fooled by the likes of Holmes and his deft touch), then Mycroft Holmes was a sharp-eyed falcon who observed the world from a height so extreme no one else could have the hope of sharing his vision.

It takes more than being merely above the world; one must possess the ability to see. Mycroft was as sharp as a hawk. Whatever faculties he possessed that made him separate from his brother; he also shared his love of his chosen comforts. This epiphany struck me as we adjourned to the club's meeting room, to see nothing about it had changed since I had first entered it.

Perhaps it his very gifts that limit him, for as his brother has told me, Mycroft has his lines, and he lives upon them. A mind powerful enough to absorb the cause and effect of every country in the world cannot be omnipotent enough to vary the singularity of his humdrum life. He always struck me as a man who drew relished repetition, perhaps for the same reason why his brother found the same pleasure in playing the same arias for hours: they throve in complexity, but found peace in their patterns.

"You look well, doctor," he said as he offered me a glass of brandy. Outside the window of the Club, the wind whistled with tiny sheets of freezing rain and sharp, small grains of soot from the factories that gave the city its life. "How are Mrs. Watson and the family?"

I knew it was a preliminary with him; he knew as surely as he knew everything about me. Yet I smiled with the pride of my answer. "All are well," I informed him. "I fear it looks as though I deserted them; they have gone to ground in the warmer clime of Kent."

"A minimal difference can be a great thing," he answered with a philosophy that reminded me of his brother. "You are wondering if there is any news of Sherlock."

"Yes," I agreed.

His thick lips pursed thoughtfully, and he did not answer me directly. "This is not like the first time he vanished off the map," his voice was modulated to expand under the least effort. "On occasion, one catches a glimpse of him in some scrap of news or an event that rings slightly out of true, as visible and yet elusive as Ahab's Whale."

I knew Holmes would not contact me—what this mysterious business was, he refused to jeopardize a family man, and he had made that clear. Still, the months had passed and there had been no word. It was no effort to return to my old boroughs and re-acquaint myself with past friends this close to the holidays.

"Hence my need to deliver this in person," I placed the small box on the table. "You will, if given the chance, tell your brother that if he wants his own Christmas greeting, he can come and get it himself."

Mycroft grunted one of his strange, half-stifled laughs. No doubt he has already divined the cufflinks, which are plain and unadorned as he is. "So I shall," he answered. "I confess, it is good to see you again, doctor. Feel free to visit me any time."

I was a tie to his brother, and despite their lack of overt affection, the two were close in ways the salt is close to the pepper. Sherlock Holmes is a difficult man to call friend, but like mining for opals, it is worth the effort. In his own way, Mycroft Holmes was telling me he knew and understood what I had done for his closest kin.

The world is changing," he announced as if to himself. "We have seen many changes in our lifespan, have we not?"

"I have no doubt there are many more to come," I answered.

His smile was strange to my sensibilities; small and wondering, the same expression I had caught upon Holmes countless times—the look of a man who admires something he does not quite fathom.

"You accept change with aplomb," he observed.

"I fail to see what else I could do." I shrugged with my better shoulder, not knowing what he meant. When I was young, I had resisted change unless it had been at my direction—the arrogance of youth knows no limitations after all! But my wounding had taught me I was not so much in control of my destiny as I was my own adaptation. With the loss of my loved ones I had vowed to never lose my perspective on such a hard lesson.

"Let me ask it of you, then." Mycroft looked at me expectantly. "What if the unthinkable would occur, that say, England was conquered by an enemy? How would you accept that?"

"I would not," I answered firmly. "Nor would many people I know. We would fight, and if fighting was taken from us, we would resist."

"Well, then! Your friends at Scotland Yard. They are collecting their years, same as we are; what would happen if they were to be replaced with a newer sort of policeman, one that felt no urge to assist those in my brother's profession? What if they felt it their duty to hinder those who sought to help in their own ways?"

I was a moment in responding. "There will always be someone willing to help," I said at last. "Holmes and I could not rely on everyone at the Yard, even when he was at his height. But there were a few who could always be counted on—and those few were worthy men."

Mycroft made a chuckling sound, deep in his chest. "What if someone you trusted committed a betrayal against your country?"

"It has happened before," I answered. "Not someone I personally knew, but there were people who I trusted by rights of their position. Working with your brother taught me it is not often as simple as a weak man seeking to escape his debts; sometimes it is a vulture preying upon an innocent."

Again, he chuckled, and rose to his feet, adjusting the watch-chain at his waist as he did so. "You are thinking of the unfortunate Trelawney Hope, and perhaps his equally unfortunate wife, Lady Hilda."

I did not ask how he knew; his mind was sharper than his brother's, and I knew how clear my thoughts were to him.

"You are a man of conviction, Doctor. For that reason, I believe you were my brother's inspiration."

I stared at him, the brandy hot in my brain while the empty glass was forgotten in my fingers. Mycroft was staring out at the darkening glaze of the winter storm, and I felt that he had momentarily withdrawn, his mind seeking a solution to a puzzle too vast for my comprehension.

"Perhaps," I heard him murmur, "we are all less intractable than we believe."

-

I left the Diogenes Club with no lessened puzzlement at our conversation. Outside the storm had grown to the typical form of misery that seems to be the lot of London in the heart of winter. Even Edinburgh hadn't been as mixed in its ability to remove one's sense of comfort.

My umbrella was greatly appreciated by the time I huddled up against the shelter of New Scotland Yard, and I struggled to break the glaze of ice off the canvas before shutting the ribs. It did occur to me that I might have read more into our conversation than had truly existed, but Mycroft was a deliberate creature—lazy, Holmes had called his brother, and there was truth in that. But Mycroft was too lazy to not speak accidentally, and his mention of the Hopes could not be a coincidence. There was only one other person in London who would be in a position to understand some aspect of that particular case.

The Yard was a drastic change from the huddled up, piled-up chaos of the past in its old address. For one, it was brightly lit with more electric lights, and I knew too few of the faces. The ones that knew me were gratifying in the quickness of their greeting.

"What can we do ye for, Doctor?" I recognized PC Murcher—Sergeant now, content with his position, and growing quite grey about the chops. "Good as it is to see you!"

"It has been a while, hasn't it?" I looked about, politely ignoring the curious gazes. I had often chided Holmes for his complaints about being seen in a 'fanciful light' but I confess I had difficulty taking my own medicine when those awestruck gazes came my own way.

"Aye, it has, and no lie," Mutcher chuckled. His body was stiff but he glowed with that stubborn vitality common to the Englishman who takes pride in his work. "You just missed Mr. Bradstreet. He was here to stop by, say hello to the Chief Super not an hour ago."

"I am sorry I missed him."

"Well, he's no doubt back with his boys on Bow Street. We were right proud of his promotion, right proud. Couldn't be a finer man in charge of that crowd. Doesn't like when he has to ride a horse, but can't have everything!" Murcher chuckled deeply. "Even Gregson admitted he was suited where he is—weren't you at his retirement party? Thought-sa. I suppose it doesn't matter he'll be retiring in a few years; he'll go a world of good while he's here."

"I couldn't agree more." I leaned on my umbrella as a walking-stick, for my wounds still ached on such fiendish nights. "Who else is here, sir?"

Murcher grinned at me, showing that a surprising amount of his natural teeth had survived his profession. "Well, there's old Lamps of course. I'm sure he'd like to say hello to you."

-

Lestrade's promotion had come as a shock to all of us—no one had doubted his ability to be a Detective Chief Superintendent; anyone who could bully the most recalcitrant mob into obeying the Crown laws by sheer force of will was someone born to lead. But Lestrade's intractable will had left a trail of well-connected enemies as well as allies, and the former had been more concerned with watching his failure.

When I think of it now, it was thoughtless arrogance that led to my astonishment. The police had ever been staffed with people who were determined to rise above their limitations; while Lestrade would concede defeat when he was wrong, he never had been known to give up. Against his superior foes, he had merely ignored them to concentrate on his duties, maintaining his work while they battered themselves senseless in their efforts to dislodge him. Even Holmes had said once, in the most grudging of tones, that his willpower was 'enviable.'

I had not seen him in almost eighteen months; twice the amount of time since I had last seen Holmes. My practice and my family had caught up much of my attention, but the span meant nothing when Lestrade looked up from his desk and his first reaction was to smile.

"Well, Dr. Watson. What brings you here on such a wretched night?" He rose and we shook hands across his desk while the storm sent the electric lights to flickering. He was not a handsome man, nor did he pretend to be. But he had a personality that compelled, a simple force of will through those remarkably dark eyes that bade one listen to him. For the first time, I could see his temples had grown quite silver, sweeping back like bird wings.

"It is good to see you," he added, "though I shudder to think it would be work that would force you out on the streets now!"

"Not business, so much, Detective Chief Superintendent." I emphasized his new title, and he grinned at me. "I am late in paying my respects."

"Not at all. You have a life to live like everyone else." He dropped his ink-pen and leaned back, stretching for a moment within the confines of a new wool uniform. "There was an assembly today," he explained, "hence the fancy togs…but I'll confess, the new cut is a great improvement from the stuff we used to patrol in!" His hand slipped to his deep blue sleeve to touch it self-consciously. "How is Mr. Holmes? Still keeping to his bees?"

I hesitated slightly, and Lestrade's eye met mine in silent knowledge. I cannot describe the moment in a way to do it justice. The little man's hair had greyed, which too often is a sign of age and not wisdom, but there was a wisdom in his gaze that I was certain had not existed in the old days.

"Have you heard nothing from your comrades in Sussex?" I asked, already scenting the answer.

Lestrade tilted his head back slightly, a faint smile flitting at his mouth. "Other than there are occasional visitors to tend to the bees, and the villa is kept up? No doubt his fancy brother at work."

"No doubt." And now that I was here, I was suddenly unsure of my next steps. "I was just to see Mycroft Holmes today, to be honest."

"Ah." Lestrade turned and turned up the light in a small oil lamp. "Electricity is all very fine, but it tends to go brown in the bulb when you need it the most," he complained. "My wife still prefers her old-fashioned cook-stove and bake-ovens. Can't say I disagree. What is one to do when the juice goes out?" He warmed his hand over the lamp-flame for a moment, and straightened. "You're looking well, John," he used my given name, as I had offered it freely some years ago. "You're worried about him, of course. I can't blame you a jot. He's the sort of man who inspires worry, though he's unaware of it himself."

Faced with such candor, I was embarrassed. "I'm sure he's being careful."

"No doubt." Lestrade answered dryly. "It is a strange world, is it not? I finally rise above Detective Inspector; you inherit a small fortune and need not work ever again…and Mr. Holmes has learnt caution. Which of the three was the least likely?"

"We had faith in you," I protested.

He sent an eyebrow up at that. "John, do you know how old I am?"

I thought about it. When we had first met, in '81, he had mentioned being in the force for twenty years. At the minimum, that put his birthday to 1843… I had been a heady youth just facing the prospects of my thirtieth year at our first meeting; he had well been within that decade.

"I am just turned threescore and ten, John." At my surprise he smiled, honestly amused. "My lineage speaking, I'm afraid. We finish up growing so quickly that we seem to be adults longer than anyone else. Very well, better late than never. I can stay long enough to do some good here, just as Bradstreet is doing on Bow. I suppose we'll be buried together, as long as we've served." He folded his arms across his chest. "Thank you for that vote of confidence, though." He made a slight movement; his in-turned foot was less noticeable here; and I wondered if he was wearing a corrective shoe of some sort to treat his old infirmity.

"I apologize. I suppose I let my worry for Holmes override my usual sensibilities." I sounded less than convincing, even to myself.

Lestrade cocked his head to one side, still a spry grasshopper of a man who kept his grandchildren's faces within the case of his watch, and knew the value of his wife as well as he knew the laws he served. "Did I ever tell you why a Copper's coat is blue, John?"

Surprised, I stared at him. "No. No, I am afraid you did not."

Lestrade examined his fingernails almost absently. "It was designed out of fear, you know," he said conversationally. In the newly-brightened lamplight his lean, strong features looked to have been carved of iron. "The people were afraid we would show loyalties to the government, which they were greatly fearful of at the time…and everyone knows the soldiers wore the red. Unlike the government, most of us never carried anything rougher than a truncheon. What I had to go to for permission to carry an iron! But that would be a story for another day. Our whistles alert the authorities; the only rank we carry that parallels the military is the detective sergeant." His lean face dipped into a look that had seen much and for long. "Anything to keep from being confused by the public we served, for being the military they feared all the more. I once ciphered out how many of us had died in the first ten years of duty, how many of us were dismissed for petty corruptions, or the drink…how many of us were wounded too badly to keep serving…it was never easy, John, but it was necessary. Slow steps. Slow, painful steps."

"I have never doubted the bravery of the Yard, you know," I told him.

"I know. We know." His smile was closer to a grin now, the look of a man who knows more than his opponent thinks. "You never once impugned our honesty in your writings. You never once accused us of being selfish, or weak, or greedy. No one else did that for us…at first we cared a great deal that you made us look like fools against Mr. Holmes. Then, though…well. Who wouldn't look a fool next to him? But everyone else was doing much worse. You treated us more honestly than any newspaper, and Mr. Holmes, for all his high birth, gave us a fair deal. For the first time, the public we served was seeing us as if we cared about them. Did you know, after Mr. Holmes became famous, our recruitment came up?"

The little man clasped his hands behind his back and peered out at the blackening stripes against the window. "And for all our lack of parallels with the military," he said carefully, "we do know the military exists. We answer to the Home Secretary more often than not, you know. They still need our small help from time to time. We are permitted to give them that help, so long as we never forget we aren't supposed to work together." His eyes gleamed suddenly, a quiet triumph after years of silence. "Playing the fool is the task of the politician."

"Do you know where he is?" I asked against hope.

Lestrade shook his head, and I believe he would not lie to me. He might suspect, and perhaps even be right…but he would not send me on a false trail of hope. "No, but he is Sherlock Holmes," he answered. "I daresay it is an important matter he is on. More important than the little affairs of my people. Whatever did Mr. Mycroft say to put such a look in your face?"

"It was just a strangeness…I believe he was trying to tell me something. He asked me what I would do if…England was ever conquered by one of her enemies."

"To be conquered?" He repeated softly, and interest crossed his face. "An interesting question, isn't it? What did you tell him?"

"Something trite, I fear, about how I would find some way to resist if I could not overtly combat. What would you have told him?"

He laughed under his breath. "You're asking the wrong person, John…but England has been invaded before, has she not? Your people to mine, and the Romans to us both after that…and then the Normans. For all that, we're all here." He tucked his hands inside his loose sleeves, for a slight chill was growing about the corners of his office. "But as a policeman…" He shook his head from side to side. "I would resign," he said softly. "It's difficult to make an example of a person if they refuse to wear a uniform, you know. And from there, I suppose I would find some…constructive way to while away my retirement."

"Sabotage?" I chuckled. "That would be just as dangerous, would it not?"

"For you, perhaps. For a man who has been called 'a complete imbecile' by the very best? It truly is astounding what one can get away with, if that is the common consensus."

"As some of us learnt during a particular incident involving a stained drugget."

Lestrade shrugged in a mighty gesture. "One cannot eat pride, John. Only crow. As I said, more important than the little affairs of my people."

"There are no little affairs in England, Lestrade," I find myself saying. "Nor are there little people." He smiled to hear me say such, and when we shook hands again in our parting, it was to promise to remain in touch. It pleases me to say we have both kept our ends of that bargain, and we are likely to do so until one of us dies.

-

One year has passed since my conversation with Mycroft; the second approaches and I feel something in my bones that says Holmes will return. It is a military sensation, a peripheral touch that is bred in the arena of survival.

I did not want to come to the inevitable conclusion that Holmes, who has worked for the heads of Europe, is now working against them in defence of his people. The dangers are astounding, and yet when has risk ever influenced his nerve? Lestrade's regular letters support my beliefs; he is as careful as anyone I have ever known, yet behind his plain hand, when I recall how often he has played the fool, I see a very different accounting.

We both play the fool, he and I. So well we have been in these roles that neither of us fully suspected the other's gift in the deception until this late hour. In the newspapers he thoughtfully mails me, I find stirrings of discontent where people are choosing sides, and not all of these sides are for England. There are arrests, and there are displays of behavior that would have been unthinkable in my youth. Somewhere, Holmes is in this—in what country performing what chore, I will not say without proof. But the signs are as clear as tracking a wind by watching the birds that ride the currents.

My question is, what will Holmes do? He has ever chafed at the bonds, real or imagined, when they were placed upon him. This task he is upon, he might serve it, but I believe he will remove himself from it. By what means, I do not know, but he is a master of obfuscation and deception, and he is lastly, a man not to be manipulated.

After a life of searching the world and his soul, my friend found the one place where he would be content. He was happy among the Downs, where his villa caught the different environs of field and forest, stream, beach and marsh. Surrounded by a metropolis of flora and fauna every bit as interesting as the heart of London, he had come to see himself as its keeper, the way he had once kept London. Only Moriarty's gang had been able to uproot him from the city he had bound himself too; for three years he had survived as a nomad, and reliant on his brother for funds. They had used him then, as they needed to. His bright mind had been perfect for observing the world and reporting the first stirrings of this burgeoning war. He must have loathed that sort of mindless obligation, but to survive, to return home, he had bowed to it.

_A monarch or a drone, eh Watson?_

A ruler...or the servant of a ruler? Holmes would obey his Monarch...but would he obey the Monarch's servants?

Once in service, always in service. I knew that as deeply as any man who took the Queen's shilling. Holmes' survival during his 'death' had depended on the support of the government. They must have collected his debt to them for this. I feel the pain of how that long-withheld obligation took his hard-earned peace.

His word when given will be followed through, but he will go no further. I know this much of him.

And I will be there for him, as I have always been. I will watch his villa knowing it is not likely that he will return to it before his time, but I am a soldier still and I know to wait when to be deployed. He will know where to find me, and he knows that he will find me.

And perhaps, when this mysterious affair is finished, I will see him again the way I remember him—content, surrounded by the sleepy dumbledore of his bees in his home facing the coast of France.


End file.
